Chapter 6
The Shostakovich
She'd finished a piece and taken her hands off the keys, and in that moment when the sound was still settling into the room, when the last vibrations were still moving through the air like ghosts, she became aware of another presence. It was like becoming aware of a predator in the room. Her entire body went rigid. She turned around, and Julian was standing in the doorway with his hands at his sides, watching her with an expression that was completely impossible to read, his face composed like he was a painting of himself.
"I couldn't sleep," she said automatically, which was both true and the most obvious lie, which was her trying to construct a reason for his presence here that didn't involve him coming to listen to her, coming to intrude on the one space she thought was hers.
He came into the room but didn't come to the piano. He positioned himself in a chair that was far enough away that it wasn't threatening but close enough that she could see him. Close enough that she was hyperaware of every movement he made, every breath he took.
"Play," he said.
So she did. She turned back to the keyboard and she played, and he didn't speak. Forty minutes. She counted them later, counting the pieces, counting the time in the way you count time when someone is watching you. She played everything she could think of, and the presence of him in the room changed it, changed the way her hands moved, changed the way the music sounded. She was playing for herself, she told herself. She was playing because she needed to, because it was the only way she knew how to be honest.
She was playing for him, and she knew it, and that knowledge made everything more real and more dangerous.
She finished with something small, a Satie piece that was barely more than a suggestion, and then she stopped. She lifted her hands away from the keys, as if sudden movement might break whatever was holding them both in place.
"Play the Shostakovich," Julian said.
The words landed like a blow. She'd been waiting for him to ask, and she also hadn't been ready for him to ask, and both of those things were true simultaneously.
"I can't," she said.
"You can." He wasn't being unkind about it. He was simply stating something he'd already decided was fact. "I want to hear it."
"It's not something I play anymore."
"I know." He was watching her with something in his eyes that looked almost like tenderness, which was probably the cruelest thing he'd done yet. "I want to hear it anyway."
She put her hands back on the keys. They were shaking. She could see the tremor, could feel the uncertainty moving through her fingers. This was why she'd stopped playing it. This was the reason. Because she couldn't play it without feeling every moment she'd fallen short, every moment the music had exceeded her capacity to express it, every moment the audience had realized she wasn't as good as she was supposed to be.
She played the first movement anyway.
It came back to her the way muscle memory worked, the architecture of it still there, all the technical requirements still locked into her body. But the feeling was different. She'd played it before with fear underneath, fear of failing the music, fear of not being what people expected. This time the fear was different. This time it was fear of being seen. This time it was Julian in the room, listening, watching her hands shake on the difficult passages, noting the places where she stumbled.
And he didn't say anything. She finished the first movement and her breathing was shaky and her heart was moving too fast in her chest like it was trying to escape, and he didn't acknowledge it. He didn't offer comfort or judgment or anything else. He just watched her with the same intensity he'd been watching her with when she arrived, like her performance was the only thing that mattered, like she was the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.
She played the second movement. This one was slower, more exposed, more vulnerable in its simplicity. The tremor in her hands gradually settled as she played deeper into the movement, as she found the part of herself that understood the music was beautiful not because of technical perfection but because of the emotions it carried. By the middle of the movement, she'd found something underneath the fear, some quality of the music that existed independent of what anyone listening thought about it. The sound itself was enough. The structure was enough. The fact of it, the thing existing separate from judgment or expectation, was enough. She could feel herself healing with every note.
She finished. The last note hung in the room for what felt like forever, suspended in the space between them, and then it faded away, and they were back in real time, in the real world where questions needed answers and choices had consequences.
Julian stood up. He came to the piano, but he didn't touch her. He stood beside the bench with his hands in his pockets and he looked at her in a way that suggested he'd just seen something true about her, something fundamental and inescapable. Something that couldn't be unseen or forgotten or explained away.
"Thank you," he said, and his voice was different than it had been before. It was softer. It was stripped of the usual careful control.
"For what?" Her voice was barely a whisper. She was afraid if she spoke any louder, the spell would break.
"For trusting me enough to be afraid in front of me," he said. "For letting me see you when your defenses were down. For playing something that obviously costs you something to play."
She looked at him, this man who'd bought her for ninety days, and she'd been constructing a version of him in her head that bore almost no resemblance to the person standing beside her. She'd been preparing for cruelty, for manipulation, for someone who would use her fear as a tool. Instead, she'd found someone who understood that fear was just honest feeling, and that honest feeling was the most valuable thing in a world full of performance.
"You should sleep," he said. "It's late."
She nodded.
She stood up from the bench, and for a moment they were very close, and the space between them carried a weight that had nothing to do with the rule about consent. He could have crossed that distance. He could have reached out. He didn't.
"Goodnight, Scarlett," he said.
"Goodnight, Julian," she said, and saying his name undid something in her — she felt it unlock, begin moving toward him in a way she couldn't stop.
She went back to her room and lay down on top of the covers, still dressed, her hands folded on her sternum. The ceiling was pale gray in the dark. She could hear the house breathing around her — the settling of old wood, the distant whisper of the ventilation system, the ordinary sounds of a building that had no idea what had just happened inside it.
She waited for her pulse to slow. It didn't.
She'd been counting the days since she arrived. Thirty-seven of them, she knew without thinking — the count had become automatic, the way breathing was automatic, a background process she didn't have to manage consciously. Ninety days. Fifty-three remaining. That was the structure she'd been living inside, the architecture that made all of this bearable.
But she'd been in that room for over an hour and she hadn't counted once. She hadn't thought about the number at all.
She got up. She crossed to the door and put her hand on the handle, and she stood there in the dark, not opening it, not letting it go.